What Was Will Never Be
by HellCat 1031
Summary: Wishes are never what they seem. Collection of short fics to What Is and What Should Never Be.
1. Home

_Title: What Was Will Never Be_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. _

_Warning: Language_

_Summary: __He'd had everything. But Sammy. He'd had everything but Sammy. __He should've realized then that it was nothing but a wish. And it really gave a whole new meaning to being careful of what you wish for. _

_Spoilers for __**What Is and What Should Never Be.**_

It was heaven. It was safety, it was love, it was light, it was life.

It was his mother's touch on his cheek and the taste of her cooking on his tongue. It was summer camps and his dad's baseball league. It was Christmas family portraits and Sammy's graduation.

It was everything he could've ever wanted. It was everything he _did_ want. God knows he wanted it so bad he burned and ached and begged for it.

"_Growing up in a place like this would freak me out."_

He remembered saying that once. On that one little hunt that involved PMSing bugs and real estate gone wrong. They had been surrounded by pretty houses and the perky people that built them. The trimmed hedges and neatly cut lawns, the red balloons, and the signs proclaiming _BBQ_.

He remembered thinking it was a little too Stepford.

He remembered Sam's _why_ and his own sarcastic remarks that ended in a vow that involved a gun and his brains splattered every which way.

"_There's nothing wrong with normal."_

Sam had replied to him with that. His hands stuffed in his pockets and a sidelong, disbelieving glance.

"_I'd take our family over normal any day."_

He was a good liar.

He was a goddamn good liar.

Sometimes even he believed his own bullshit.

_Sometimes._ Most of the time though, somewhere deep in him, he craved and thirsted for normal. For the light flicked on for him in the porch, for the pictures on the mantel. For the flower wallpaper and comfortable furniture. For the warmth of home and the scent of the woman he hadn't seen for twenty three years. For that goddamn white picket fence and manicured lawn.

He remembered waking next to her—Carmen—confused and disoriented and something else he couldn't put his finger on.

He remembered walking out and seeing the pictures of them. Happy and smiling and so fucking _content_.

He remembered seeing _that_ picture. His mother. He hadn't wanted to believe it was real. He couldn't take it if it wasn't.

But it was. And _she_ was. In a way that wasn't really.

They'd been happy. Sammy was a lawyer, he had Jessica and they were engaged.

His mom was going to be a grandmother. He was going to have a sister.

He'd had everything. But Sammy. He'd had everything but Sammy.

He should've realized then that it was nothing but a wish. And it really gave a whole new meaning to being careful of what you wish for.

It hadn't been real. None of it. His mom never celebrated her 51st birthday and Sammy had never proposed to Jessica.

He'd never met Carmen. Which was a shame because he really did think she was The One.

And goddamn it all but it hurt. It hurt more than it should have. Now he knew what he might've had. Now he knew what _Sammy_ might have had. Their mother. That regular-College-Joe life Sam wanted so incredibly and obviously. That life that Sam had left him for the first time.

Now he understood.

Sometimes he wished he'd taken it. Sometimes he wished he'd stayed.

But it hadn't been real.

It should've been easier to deal with.

It wasn't.

He didn't know if he wanted to cry with relief or take the knife under his pillow and thrust it in his heart again just to make sure _this_ was real.

His brother slept next to him five feet away. Silent and still and turned to him. He might've been awake but for the relaxed and even breaths that came only with sleep. Not deep sleep…but deep enough.

He'd learned what different breathing patterns meant. More than that…he knew what _Sammy's_ breathing patterns meant. Nightmares, unconsciousness, not quite sleep but not quite wakefulness either. He knew them all. He took care of what was his.

And damn the car, damn his dagger, damn the cheeseburgers and hot waitresses. Sam was his.

They barely spoke in that other…well…they barely spoke.

Sam was Sam even while he wasn't and he was a lazy asshole drunk that slept with his little brother's prom date on prom night.

They barely spoke, Sam was just barely civil but their mom was alive and they had a gorgeous, normal life.

But they weren't _SamandDean_, they were Sam and Dean.

He might've stayed. He could've fixed him and Sam. He was good at fixing things.

Apparently he was a fricken mechanic.

Everything might've been okay. It probably would've. And god…he'd wanted to stay.

He was a selfish bastard. And he had his moments of weakness.

For a split second, he didn't care that there were people he'd saved who hadn't been. He didn't care that a little girl drowned while playing in her mother's hotel's pool. And he could never forgive himself for that.

Even when he gave up his mother and Sam's happiness—_The One_—could he forgive himself. Even when he feltthe knife stab through skin and muscle and heart could he let go of that all-consuming rage and grief and agony.

But when he woke to reality and Sammy—_Auntie Em_—and frantic worry—a_ relieved and shaky breath from lips whose first word was his name_—and everything that is—_there's no place like home_—he realized that even with all of that, he wouldn't have _this_.

It may not have been completely okay…but with the sound of his brother's breathing and the oh-so-painful-not-right-but-totally-completely-real feel of his mother's touch, it came pretty damn close.

_Close door number one…_

_I might continue this. I think I want to, I think I really want to. I'm probably gonna take this down and totally rework it. __**What Is and What Should Never Be**__ was a total heartbreaker of an episode. I have all these ideas for tags/fics/whatevers to write and I have no clue where to start or how to. _

_I hope you liked this, if you did, drop me a line. If you didn't, drop me a line and let me know how I can make it better. I am in no way begging for reviews._


	2. Never Enough

_Never Enough_

It should've been easier than it was.

It should've been a hell of a lot easier than it was.

It had only been everything he had ever wanted. His mother, a home—a stable home. One with a permanent street address, a permanent mailing address, and with that permanent house number on the side of the door's threshold with a mat proclaiming 'Welcome!' that laid at the ground.

It seemed the only permanence in his life was losing everything that mattered anything.

He loved hunting. As that little cliché so joyfully, deeply and philosophically stated, it wasn't what he did, it was who he was.

And it really was.

He couldn't imagine not hunting down the creepy, bumpy in the night. He lived for the thrill—the adrenaline rush as he rushed through tombstones or crappy movie sets, or haunted woods or darkened bank halls as he stalked whatever big bad thought it could mess with innocent people.

He supposed it wasn't healthy. The absolute and awesome drive of his thirst. And it was also why he figured that no matter the amount of salt and gasoline poured on his body, no matter the heat of the flame that burned his bones, and no matter the protection and binding charms laid into his coffin or urn or whatever would ever stop him from coming back.

He loved the thrill of the hunt too much.

He fought so hard on the side of the hunt and vowed suicide should he ever be presented with even the thought of the concept of normal. But as Shakespeare said, he protested just a little, too damn much.

He thought sometimes Sammy would see it. Just sometimes. And he was pretty sure little brother thought his eyes and mind were just playing tricks on him. It was what he wanted. Because if Sammy figured that hunting was wearing his big brother down—if Sammy knew of the times he feared that their all wouldn't be enough, that _his_ all wouldn't be enough, then Sam would just decide the hell with it and stop fighting.

But fuck him. Fuck his own fears, fuck his own desires, and fuck his own wished. Sam was all that mattered. Sam in all his chick-flick, teen angst, puppy dog eyes, and much too goddamn pouty face glory. It was an obligation to protect Sammy. It was a duty. It was one he cherished, one he adored—though if he were ever called on it, he'd swear on all the cheeseburgers and frisky women in the world it wasn't true.

Because it was Sammy. It was all he had ever known. He'd give up everything for Sam.

So why the hell was the choice he made hanging so heavy over his head? Why was it there like a deceivingly deadly pillow held over his face, pressured and heavy and suffocating?

Why did choosing Sammy leave an empty, hungry, and gaping hole in him? Why did it feel like everything about him that was human, everything that was his soul, was being torn from him slowly and agonizingly?

It shouldn't feel this way. It shouldn't be this hard.

So why the hell was it?

_close door number two..._


End file.
